Page 262 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about the possibility of it being something different, something more like what the Hawthornes have.
But maybe it’s time I start.
I want something better.
Ideservesomething better.
I just have to figure out how to get it.
Chapter Fifteen
Lennox
“Bacon, right?” Tatum asksas she gathers the plates off of Brody’s dining room table. “What else is in it? It tasted too mild to be beef.”
I carry the empty saucepan that I used to warm the Bolognese over to Brody’s kitchen sink. Tatum steps in beside me and sets the plates on the counter.
“Yes to the bacon,” I say. “But no ground beef. I use ground pork loin. The leanest cut I can find. Anything else overpowers the flavor profile of the vegetables, and I wanted them to be the star of the dish.”
I reach for the giant pot of water Brody warmed on the camp stove outside. There’s running water—Kate and Brody have a well—but it’s ice cold, which won’t do much good when we’re washing dishes. Hopefully, there’s enough here for us to get things cleaned up. Brody wouldn’t care if we just left everything in the sink, but doing the dishes feels like the least I can do.
Apparently, Tatum agrees because she volunteered to help me the minute the words were out of my mouth. Brody and Kate disappeared into the living room to build up the fire and set upsome sort of trivia board game they’re very excited about playing with us. Kate and Brody are big board game players, and they seem very enthusiastic about having new people to play against. Normally, I might find this irritating—the two of them are merciless, especially if they’re playing on the same team—but they can beat me a dozen times in a row if it means I’m playing with Tatum, too.
“The vegetables,” Tatum says, pulling my attention back to the meal we just finished. “Celery, carrots, onions?” She runs her finger along the edge of the mostly empty saucepan and lifts it to her mouth. “No, not onions. Shallots?”
I manage a nod—I’m entirely too distracted by the sight of her lips as she tastes the sauce—but I’m impressed she’s able to tell. The difference is subtle enough, not everyone can.
“The sweetness though,” she says as she plugs up one half of the sink. She steps back while I pour in half of the boiling water, then turn on the tap to cool it down enough for us to use it without burning our hands.
“It feels like it’s something beyond the wine. It feels deeper. Nuttier, maybe?” She adds a little soap to the sink and swirls it around with her fingers before grabbing the first plate and slipping it into the water.
It almost feels like Tatum is having a conversation with herself, walking through the different flavors in the Bolognese, trying to pinpoint what went into it. It’s a fun game for any chef—deconstructing, trying to figure out why something works so well, and I’m flattered she’s putting so much thought into my dish. It has to mean she likes it—or at least appreciates its complexity.
She holds up the first plate. “I wash, you rinse?”
“So your hands stay warm and mine stay cold?”
She sticks her fingers into the soapy water and flicks a few bubbles my way. “Precisely.”
I let out a little grunt as I take the dish, my fingers brushing against hers. When we touch, her eyes dart to mine, fire flashing in their depths.
“Gah, you have to just tell me, Lennox. I can’t figure it out.” She hands me another dish, her expression open and curious.
“I roast the carrots first,” I finally say. “It brings out their natural sweetness more than sautéing them does.”
Her face brightens. “Roasting them. That’s—” She smiles for the briefest moment before it melts into a frown, her shoulders dropping the tiniest bit. The shift happens so quickly, had I not been watching her closely, I might have missed it. “That’s brilliant,” she says. “I never would have thought of that.”
The comment gives me pause. It’s a level of humility I wouldn’t have expected from theTatum Elliott I knew in culinary school.
Back then, she knew all the answers to every question all the time. But she hasn’t had that same edge since coming to Stonebrook. She’s been openly complimentary of my food, inquisitive about ingredients.
She hands me the last plate and pauses, her hands resting on the side of the sink. “How did you know to do that?” The sincerity in her question catches me off guard. “I’ve read a hundred different recipes for Bolognese, but I’ve never seen—” She gives her head a little shake. “But it made a difference. Yours is different.Better.How did you do it?”
The compliment sends a burst of warmth racing through me, but I’m not sure how to answer her question. “I don’t know, really. Or maybe I just don’t know how to put it into words?” I’m silent for a beat while I dry the last plate. “Will you laugh if I tell you I let the ingredients speak to me?”
She tilts her head and studies me closely, but for a moment, it looks like she’s somewhere else. Finally, her gaze drops, and she steps away from the sink. She reaches over and steals the dishtowel that’s draped over my shoulder, using it to dry her hands. “I think this is something that makes us different.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
